


Marital Aid

by Bagheera



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bisexuality, Creampie, F/M, Femdom, Happy Ending, John Hancock - manic pixie dream ghoul, M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Pegging, Polyamory, Revenge Sex, Sex Toys, Spitroasting, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-01-16 13:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagheera/pseuds/Bagheera
Summary: Hancock wrecks a marriage and puts it back together the only way he knows how: better, messier and with more sin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: infidelity/cheating - it has a happy ending, but just so you're warned, this story has that in it, and the way they fix it is... probably not recommended outside PWPs. 
> 
> Also, these are slightly non-canonical Sole Survivors in that a) they both make it out of the vault and b) they never had a baby, but other than that, the basic premise is the same.

The first time Nora Hurston walked into Goodneighbor, she appeared from the gloom of the back alleys on a thirsty summer afternoon like a mirage born of dust and the fumes singing in the hot air. 

The long-clogged Boston gutters breathed a stench somewhere between rotting mirelurk and soiled underwear. Clean water was of short supply, and the smoothskins in town, who couldn’t go without, were mixing their water liberally with spirits to stay alive. It was a day for picking dumb fights, a day for short tempers, and she ran straight into the biggest blockhead in town. Finn Howard simply did not get the hint that the times when strangers were fair game for a shakedown were over, and he kept trying to act as though it was all a private joke, nudge nudge, wink wink, sure boss, won’t happen again. 

The newcomer looked exactly like Finn’s type: fresh-faced and defenseless. Not even visibly carrying a weapon, just a small backpack slung over one shoulder and a gas mask dangling around a neck that reminded Hancock of one of those swan boats in Commons, if someone had cleaned off all the muck. She wore a dark duster, a little too long for her, and a wide-brimmed hat over… oh damn, that hair. Give it a good rinse, and one might have applied words like ‘glossy’ or ‘silky’. And to add insult to injury, it was almost exactly the kind of strawberry blonde that Hancock still missed when he looked in a mirror. 

Enter Finn, stage left, acting like he owned the stones under his feet. He definitely was dumb as fucking rocks, because seriously, why waste your chance with a woman like that on a few caps? Finn wasn’t a catch if you knew him, but compared to a ghoul, a sole woman might be deceived.

Finn, though, launched straight into the greasy threats, by the looks of it. 

Hancock was about to call Finn to heel, but before he could make his way over to the gate, the situation took an unexpected turn. 

He watched the stranger’s face tilt up as she looked Finn dead in the eye and answered something that seemed to penetrate that thick skull like a hot knife through butter. She went on talking after that, calmly, and Finn’s stance changed from cocksure to flustered. From the counter of Daisy’s shop, Hancock saw Finn flinch, and then cast a flustered look around the square before he hastily spit at the woman’s feet and retreated. 

Huh. Not that defenseless, after all. Clearly, this lady didn’t need help, but maybe a round of applause? 

“Oh honey,” Daisy sighed behind him as Hancock pushed off the counter to intercept. 

Sure. Daisy was right. Anywhere but Goodneighbor a ghoul wouldn’t have stood a chance with a marvel like her, but this was his own turf. No one was gonna tar and feather him for trying. 

Hancock gave her his most winning and hopefully least alarming smile. “Quite the entrance, sister. Ain’t many folks that can get through to guys like Finn without violence. Fancy teaching me that trick - over a drink, maybe?”

He could tell by the way she turned to look at him that this was a woman who’d had to deal with being hit on by strangers all her life, and that she was about to serve him a helping of the same cold dessert that Finn had just swallowed. Up close he could see that there were a few scuff marks after all, a smudge of dust under her nose, a sheen of sweat on her cheeks, some tangles in her hair. The duster she wore was too heavy for the hot weather. But her eyes were a cool, untouchable blue. 

As they met his, however, there was a faint stutter to her poise, a second where she registered what he was and the flat rejection she was about to deliver faltered. Hancock expected disgust, disdain, but under the shade of her hat, her eyes widened in astonishment, then narrowed in a sudden flash of curiosity.

“A drink,” she repeated, brows climbing. She took off her hat, shaking out her hair – nonchalant, but it was clearly all she could do not to stare. “Alright. I’ve never had a ghoul offer to buy me a drink.”

Only moderately insulting – a definite win. 

“Seems you haven’t been to the right places,” Hancock grinned, and threw a quick, triumphant look over his shoulder. Daisy responded with a pitying headshake. 

Sure. It was his funeral. But the wake was going to be one to remember. 

The stranger was on her own, and he didn’t see the ring on her finger until an hour later, when she tipped back the last of her bourbon, fingers tapping on the rim of the glass as she set it down on the bar counter. A slim band of gold, strangely unscuffed - like it was fresh from a forge, not heirloom passed down the generations. How rich was she, to look like that and own things like this ring? And why was she on her own? 

That was when Hancock realized that he had been his most charming self to absolutely no effect. Somehow, had told her almost everything there was to know about Goodneighbor, but he barely even knew her name. Nora. Maybe she’d mentioned a last name, but he wasn’t sure. 

“Thanks for the drink, Mayor,” she said as she slipped off her barstool, and he could hear the mocking quotation marks around the title of office. She’d been quite interested Goodneighbor’s organization. He’d even told her about Vic. 

He’d given her the hero’s version of that tale, the one that left out the ugly, personal bits, and she’d smiled, a quick, dry quirk of her mouth, and asked, And then you were elected?

Like she knew the answer already. 

And Hancock could tell, by the smile she gave him now, that she considered him not just a fool but an easy mark, hardly better than Finn. 

“Oh, she played ya something good, Johnny,” he muttered to himself as he watched her go. The feeling wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either – like a bad batch of daddy-o that left you feeling strung out and keyed up all at once, ridden hard and put away wet.

Maybe, he thought, it was a good thing that she was another man’s trouble. 

*

The first time Mr. Hurston walked into Goodneighbor, he was missing one sleeve of his vault suit and carrying a wounded man on his back, both of them soaked by a radstorm that had been lashing the city for hours. 

The ruckus caused by their arrival drifted up to the state house, where Hancock listened in annoyance for a couple of minutes before dragging himself off the couch. Most ghouls liked going out in a storm and soaking up the free rads, but the drop in air pressure always made his joints ache, and he absolutely hated getting wet. 

The annoyance subsided as soon as he saw the cause of the commotion. Hancock ambled across the square with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, because yes, that was a man in distress, and he fully intended to find out what he could do to help, but damn. Damn, what a fine-looking guy. Shoulders so broad you could harness him to a plough, a shiny new vault suit leaving nothing about long legs and corded muscle to the imagination, dark stubble dusting a stubborn jaw. His bared arm was covered in wet grime in a way that made you want to lick it off with a shot of tequila. Or maybe that was just Hancock. He really had a thing for guys that could probably lift his skinny ghoul ass with one hand. 

Shame the man stared at him with eyes wide like a fawn, like he’d never seen a talking ghoul before. Something tingled in his memory at that, something that would have rung a bell if he’d been a mentat or two deeper into his daily routine, but he was distracted by the way the stranger’s tongue darted out nervously, wetting his lips as he repeated his raw plea, “Is there a doctor in this place?”

Hancock decided to be kind. He said a few words that got the stranger and his wounded Minuteman friend some preferential treatment from Dr. Amari, and didn’t even try to hide his wolfish grin when the vault dweller came back out into the memory den, rubbing his short hair dry with a rag cloth. As soon as he spotted Hancock, he started thanking him, effusively and repeatedly, before stopping with a crooked grin. 

“Listen to me talk your ears off – I haven’t even introduced myself. Blake. Blake Hurston. The man whose life you just saved is Preston Garvey of the Minutemen. Seriously, if there’s anything we can do to repay you – anything at all – the one thing we don’t have is money, I mean caps. But if there’s anything else…”

No caps. Oh dear. Whatever could be done. Hancock didn’t normally take advantage of people like this, but there was no harm, he figured, in finding out if maybe this strapping fellow wanted to be taken advantage of, a little. 

“How about we discuss that over some jet in a more… private setting? It’s on the house.”

Tough guys like Hurston often didn’t go for jet, he looked like a buffout and Gwinnet man if anything, but Hancock could just picture him getting all wild-eyed and loose on a nice deep huff of the good shit. Or, fuck, maybe he could talk Hurston into psycho, most folks didn’t appreciate the range on that stuff, it wasn’t just for killing sprees. He hadn’t had a proper hard fuck in months. 

Interestingly, Hurston didn’t say no to the jet. Just gave another flustered thanks and trailed after Hancock like a dazed puppy. 

But when he had Hurston on his couch and pointed at the selection of inhalers and pills on the silver tea tray set out on the coffee table, the vault dweller blinked at it and belatedly seemed to realize what Hancock had offered, “Oh. Is this … you want to do drugs?” 

Hancock very nearly lost it at that. The snicker was already bubbling in his throat, but at the same time, if he still had a nose, he would have pinched it because, Christ. He’d never met a vault dweller before, but he could already tell this was going to be a ride. 

He tried to keep it smooth. “Oh, there’s a bunch of things I wanna do, brother. If chems ain’t your speed, maybe we’ll figure out something else…”

Hurston stilled, his smile falling. For a moment he just sat there, nostrils flaring, like a radstag startled by a noise in the underbrush, and then he tilted his head a little, and with startling clarity for a man who seemed so flustered and, well, simple a moment before, said, “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind. It’s just… you’re making it sound like I’d be doing *you* a favor, that’s all.”

Huh. Hancock paused, mentally revising his assessment. The vault dweller wasn’t as innocent as he was handsome. There was a brain somewhere behind that befuddled, delightful earnestness. 

“Maybe you would,” he drawled slowly, leaning against the side of the couch. “Be doing me a favor.”

Hurston picked up the inhaler, small in his hand, and shrugged. “Like this, right?”

He figured it out on the first try, sucking in a long, rough breath. Didn’t hold it long enough, but he shuddered on the exhale like it had hit him nonetheless. “Jesus…”

Hancock watched him a moment longer, enjoying the flush creeping onto the man’s cheeks and then he pulled a fairly clean towel from one of the cabinets, better than the rag Amari had given him and tossed it to Hurston. “Here. Get yourself cleaned up.”

Hurston caught the towel with the lightning reflexes of a man on jet, and then stared at his hand in surprise. A deep, rolling laugh pushed up from his belly that shook him and made his eyes gleam, and then he stared at Hancock, his gaze bright and unreadable, before putting the inhaler to his lips again and taking a very deliberate second hit, after which he dropped the jet and pulled down the zipper of the vault suit, baring a long strip of skin all the way down to his belly. The way he scrubbed his neck and head with the towel was both coy and slightly uncoordinated, like he was hyper-aware of being watched in one moment, and forgetting about it in the next. 

He asked if Hancock was really the mayor. He laughed as he touched the sleeve of Hancock’s coat, thanked him again, sucked in another deep breath, asked if he should go. Blushed when Hancock asked whether he wanted to, the party was only just starting. 

Hurston didn’t even try to get away from him when Hancock sat down close. 

Barely ten minutes later, he was clinging to the couch, fingers digging into the leather as Hancock went deep on his cock. The thing was nothing short of proportional, flushed dark and impressively hard, tasting of salt and rain and sex, and just as Hancock changed the angle a little to take that last, wide inch, thick black hair already scraping against his lips, he saw Hurston clutching his own thigh and the glint of gold on his ring finger. 

In the heat of the moment, it didn’t bother him that much. His rhythm stuttered for a second, he almost gagged, and then Hurston groaned at the feeling of Hancock’s throat closing around his dick and thrust up, throwing back his head in helpless ecstasy and Hancock closed his eyes. So what if the guy was married, he was a free man and getting his dick sucked by strange ghouls was his choice. 

Hurston came with the roughest little groan and Hancock savored the taste, the thick feel of the jizz coating his tongue, before sitting back and licking his tongue. 

Hurston’s eyelids fluttered. He lifted his head from the back of the couch, groaning, and for a moment seemed too dazed to focus on anything. Then his eyes lit on Hancock, and panic rushed into his expression. He pulled away, sitting up straight, and quickly fumbled with the zipper and his now flagging, shrinking dick. 

What a pity. This had started out so promising. “Easy,” Hancock said, getting back onto his feet and giving Hurston some space. “Jet can do that to ya – “

“It’s not – I shouldn’t have – “ Hurston didn’t manage to get out a coherent sentence, and barely managed to find the door. Hancock listened for his steps on the stairs, but there was no sound of falling, no noise other than the somewhat mean-spirited laughter of the watchman downstairs. 

This panicked retreat annoyed him. For a moment, Hancock even thought about throwing Hurston out of town, because that had been fucking rude. But he wasn’t that petty. Wasn’t that thin-skinned, shit, he’d had far worse. At least Hurston hadn’t gone for his gun.

Hurston spent the next couple of days hiding in the Memory Den. If not for his wounded friend, Hancock was sure the man would have run out of town as quickly as those nice legs would carry him. 

Then, three days after he’d fucked her husband, Nora Hurston walked back into Goodneighbor. 

It was early, around noon. Hancock just happened to be having his morning smoke on the balcony in time to see her knock on the door of the Memory Den. The door was opened by Irma, and a moment later Hurston came out in a rush. He immediately swept her up in his arms, beaming like a little boy as he kissed her hair – until a second later, his face fell and he set her back down gingerly, taking a step back into the gloom of the Den. 

Oh fuck, Hancock thought, stubbing out the cigarette on the railing. Her. And him. 

Identical fucking rings. The same radiant health, the same straight, white teeth. Crap. What did he even do mentats for? 

This was trouble. 

He found Nora Hurston down in the Third Rail that night, a distant look on her face as she watched Magnolia’s show. Normally, a woman like her wouldn’t have stayed alone long, but the expression on her face had people giving her a wide berth. 

It was clear that she knew something. Brave, stupid man, Hancock thought. Most guys might have kept their mouths shut for fear of being skinned alive, but Blake Hurston clearly was braver than he was smart. 

And then she turned and her eyes narrowed as she spotted him and he knew that Hurston really had spilled all the beans. 

It was too late to turn away now. Besides, he wanted to know what she would do. He strolled up to her, taking his time. She sipped on her drink as he slid onto the chair next to her.

There was a roughness to her voice, like she had been screaming, but she hid it well. No tear tracks, but then, she wasn’t wearing any make-up.

“Points for originality,” she said. “Men wanting to get back at me for rejecting them isn’t new, but I never had anyone go for my husband instead.”

“Hey, now,” Hancock said. “Sister - “

“I’m no more your sister than you are the mayor of this town,” she said, with a tone so crisply polite it felt like a knife to his throat. 

He was this close to no longer being amused.  
“This ain’t a fight you wanna pick,” he warned. 

She glanced away from her glass, meeting his eyes for a second, and there was a twist of raw anger and pain in her eyes, like she was going to yell at him – like she wanted it to get ugly. 

“Unless you do,” he corrected himself, “but I warn ya. What happened between me and your man wasn’t nothing personal. None of that revenge crap you’re talking about. But you wanna pick a fight with me, I ain’t holding back ‘cause you’re pretty.”

She looked at him a moment longer, like she didn’t believe a word he said, then knocked back the rest of her glass.

“You know what, forget it. I’m glad Blake had a friendlier reception than I did. It’s good to know your town deserves its name at least some of the time. But if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

Hancock waved at Charlie, silently conveying that he was going to pick up the tab. There was a little twinge of disappointed that she hadn’t decided to escalate, but he could respect wanting to drown your sorrows. Before he could leave her to it, though, she began talking again. 

“I can’t blame you, can I? It’s not like you’re the first to try. You wouldn’t believe how many members of the secretary pool I had to fend off the first time Blake came to give me a ride home from office.”

There was something almost humorous in her tone. A dark, sardonic humor, sharp as a wounded yao guai’s claws. “Still. I have to hand it to you. You’re the first to get anywhere with him. I’m not sure if you’re just that determined, or whether I’ve finally found out what type of man my husband likes.” She snorted. “He’s pretty tight-lipped about it. Unlike you, I imagine.”

Oh crap. Hancock couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Fuck,” he wheezed. “Sorry. You’re just -” She watched him with lips pinched. Right. To her, this wasn’t funny. He forced himself to sober up. 

“Apologies for hitting on your man. Honestly. Didn’t know he was taken until it was kinda… over and done with.”

“Not a lot of small talk between you, was there?” she mused, topping up her drink again. “Straight to the chase.”

“Don’t lay the blame on him.” Hancock was right here, after all, and the best scapegoat this side of Boston. He liked these two. He didn’t want to cause them grief. If all it took to sort this out was to offer himself up as a punching bag, he was happy to do so.

“If anyone cheated, it was me. Don’t think he’s got much experience with chems, right?”

Most folks would have jumped at the excuse, Hancock thought. He wasn’t the marrying type, hell, he wasn’t the type for any kind of commitment - he was the accident, the little misstep, the thing that stayed in Vegas. He liked it that way. But if he had been in her shoes, damn, he’d be hurt, and he’d love to blame a stranger. 

Her eyes narrowed at his words, though, quick and sharp, and she leaned in like a hound smelling blood. 

“Really? That’s the route you want to take for his defense? Because if you put it like that, you’re making it sound dangerously like something I could prosecute you for, if courts of law were still a thing.”

Hancock bit his tongue. All he’d meant to say was that he’d led Blake astray, and she went straight to calling him a rapist? He would have laughed it off except it did sting, it did hit a little too close to home, it did kindle his anger again… right until he realized that the fuel was his own bad conscience.

He’d seen something he’d wanted, and a way to get it. But, fuck, no, it wasn’t like that, was it? Her husband was a little innocent for the wasteland, but that little comment before he took the jet, the way he had looked at Hancock after pulling down the zipper of his suit, like hell he hadn’t known - 

The bad feeling wouldn’t budge, rationalizations or no. And she was still watching him, disdain curling her lips. It would have been very easy to walk into that naked blade she was offering, but a moment before he could do something stupid, like threaten her, she pulled back with a tired sigh and said, “Not that there’d be a snowball’s chance in hell of someone like you getting convicted, then or now.”

What the hell was – oh yeah. She’d said something about courts of law. That she’d prosecute him, which, if Hancock remembered correctly the few times he’d actually listened to Nick Valentine as a kid, meant that she was a lawyer, and not the sort that got you out of trouble. Was she – she was calling him corrupt, wasn’t she? Like he thought himself above justice, like one of those arrogant fuckers from the Diamond City stands. 

“Hey,” Hancock said, genuinely rattled. “Maybe we’re missing some checks and balances in this town, but I ain’t that kind of asshole. I wouldn’t game the system if we had one.”

She blinked. “So you got that, huh?”

She needed a distraction. Offering himself as punching bag hadn’t worked. Maybe a sparring partner was what she really wanted. 

“The gist of it,” he said. “Didn’t know vaults had lawyers. Got a lot of misdemeanors in there?”

For a moment, she seemed torn between telling him to piss off and wanting to set him right. The latter impulse won out. Anger and drinking made her a lot more talkative than she’d been the last time. Next thing Hancock knew, he was learning about the correct terms for all the legal offences he’d actually committed in his fifty years of living it up, and almost by accident, learned the crazy story of a pre-war couple frozen in a vault. 

Blake and Nora Hurston. He an infantryman, home between tours, she about to become Boston’s first female district attorney, and one of the youngest, too. They’d seen the bombs fall over Boston and woken up two hundred years later to watch their neighbors get murdered as strangers broke into the vault to steal their kid. The kidnappers were long gone, but the Hurstons had crawled out of that icy grave together, alive, and they made their way through the wasteland, surviving. Just the two of them against the world. 

It would have been romantic, if not for the ugly twist Hancock had put to it. 

By the end of the night, she was deep in her cups, and he was still surprisingly sober. 

“You know,” she slurred, pushing back a stray strand of blonde hair, “you know what I should do? Sleep with you. Get even.”

He patted her hand, no longer afraid to get his fingers broken. “Might not look that way, but I ain’t that hard up for it. ‘sides, I don’t think you really wanna do that.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed, halfway between a grin and a grimace. “I love him even if he’s a slut. But you, you’re – I mean, look at you, and still - right? I get why he did it. The big dumb slut.”

He laughed, genuinely flattered. “Ain’t that the nicest thing you’ve said all night.”

It made her frown, adorably close to losing the thread of their conversation. She wasn’t much older than thirty, he thought. Still young behind that tough attitude and sharp wit. A lot like him at that age, if he’d been sober more often and less prone to fucking up. 

“I’m not nice?” she asked belligerently, taking his words for sarcasm. “Because I called him a slut? He is, though.” With a not very ladylike snort, she added, “Putting out on the first date.”

He couldn’t help himself. The opening was just too good. It was a joke, of course, but better laugh about it than cry. 

“First date, huh? That what we’re calling it now? ‘cause if you put it like that, you’re making it sound like there could be a second …” 

The slap was quick, and hard, her aim far better than to be expected of someone this drunk. He hadn’t expected it, but he sure deserved it. Hancock tipped his hat back into place and sucked on his inner cheek with a lopsided grin. “Message received. Feel better?”

“No,” she muttered. “Stop smiling. What happened to you not holding back? I know I’m a f-featherweight, but you could at least pretend. You’re making me feel like one of those silly girls in Hollywood flicks.” 

Hancock rarely wished he was a pre-war ghoul, but he had only the barest idea what she was on about. Back to feeling bad about herself, though, he could tell that much. 

And then she slowly toppled off the barstool, and he caught her just in time to save her from getting too closely acquainted with the Third Rail’s filthy floor. There were a few dog whistles as he slung her arm around his shoulder and helped her up the stairs. Ham held the door open for them, and as the rush of cold, wet air hit them, she lifted her head, frowning, her face inches from his. 

A little more sober than a moment ago. 

He could tell what she was thinking. I’ve let my guard down with him. Is he going to do something about it?

She looked surprised when he turned left, taking her to the Memory Den. Surprised, and vulnerable as she ducked her head and muttered, “‘s not fair. Everything’s gone to hell except for these damned… double standards.” 

He’d have asked her what she meant by that, but before he could, she doubled over and threw up on his boots.


	2. Chapter 2

They could have left it at that. Agreed to keep out of each other’s way, or agreed to try a fresh start. Honestly, though, the keeping out of each other’s way part wasn’t gonna work unless the Hurstons stayed out of Goodneighbor entirely, because these two were movers and shakers, he could already tell. 

They could have pretended it never happened. It was the smart, wise and polite thing to do, and for once in his life Hancock intended to be all these things. They could be friendly acquaintances, keep it casual and chill, and maybe one day Blake Hurston would get out a full sentence in his presence. Because the next time they blew into town, Nora seemed perfectly fine when Hancock joined them at their table at the Third Rail, chatting with him about music and Kent’s Shroud station and trade routes up and down the coast, while Blake kept his mouth shut, staring at his bottle of Gwinnet with his big shoulders hunched like a guilty puppy. 

She ignored her husband’s behavior, and when Hancock asked her if she wanted to join him and some people at a game of caravan in the back room, she got up, ruffled Blake’s short hair and said, “See you at the hotel, babe?”

Blake nodded. “Love you,” he said, looking a little lost. “Have fun.”

She was a quick study, even though she claimed not to be a big gambler, and after the first round played aggressively and with a sharp poker face through a couple of heavy losses before raking in win after win. Finally, the rest of the table got fed up, including MacCready, who got over his star-struck terror of her for long enough to accuse her of not being a newbie at caravan at all. 

“Easy, Bobby,” Hancock chided. “I’ll give ya a chance to earn it back.”

“Yeah, whatever,” MacCready muttered, packing up his things, “seems like you got your evening planned already.”

Teasing him never got old. For an ex-gunner, the kid was awfully quick to blush. “Scared I’ll ask you to stay and keep us company?” 

MacCready flipped him off and scurried away, leaving them both alone at the table. Nora watched him go with a wicked smile crinkling her eyes. “Poor kid, getting teased like that. And he really likes you, too.”

“Likes you, too, sister, in case ya didn’t notice him stare at your rack. Probably doesn’t know whether to be jealous of you or me. ‘sides, MacCready likes my caps more than he likes my dick. He’ll get over it.”

She gave a soft snort, ducking her head to continue counting her caps. Hancock leaned back in his chair, dragging on his cigarette as he watched her. They’d progressed from being at each other’s throats to this easy banter, and compared to the last time, she seemed relaxed, almost happy. Unlike Mr Hurston. 

“So,” he drawled. “Speaking of confused puppies. Did ya forbid him to talk to me, or his your guy just afraid my incredible ghoulish wiles are gonna trip him up again?”

She looked up sharply, clearly annoyed that he dared to talk about Blake’s misstep like this, but after a moment, she shut it again behind a tight-lipped headshake. “I don’t tell him what to do.”

“Look, I know shit all about relationships, but I can tell ya a thing or two about freedom. It’s fucking great. Most people figure it out sooner or later. But a dog that’s been kept on a leash and beaten all his life is more likely to chase after bloatflies than one that’s been running free since day one.”

“And you’re the bloatfly in that analogy? If so, that’s about the only part you got right. I never kept Blake on a leash.”

“Probably didn’t,” Hancock agreed, ignoring the jibe. It was still, if just barely, friendly. “But remember when we talked about my rap sheet, last time? Heh. Maybe ya don’t.”

“Is this going anywhere, or are you just stoned?”

“He likes dick. Likes it so much he would have taken it from someone like me, if he wasn’t so in love with you. As I recall, that kind of thing used to be a criminal offense, in the good old times.”

Nora stilled, her gaze dropping from his face to the cracked tabletop – to somewhere inward, shutting the gates behind her. She sat like that for a long moment, then raked in her caps. 

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she said as she got up. “I always knew he liked men. He actually made a point of telling me, before we got married. And I told him that if he ever wanted to experience that, all he needed to do was tell me. I had friends, you know. From college. I could have hooked him up with the right people. It was Blake who said no. Claimed that he didn’t need anyone but me.”

Hancock watched her go, the second person that night to run out on him in a huff. He really had a fucking talent, didn’t he? 

“Never said it was your fault, sunshine,” he said to the empty room.

*

He wasn’t sure she’d talk to him after that. The Hurstons left town again, and through the usual channels, Hancock heard a rumor of a big shakeup in Lexington, the raider gang there rousted from the old Corvega factory by the Minutemen. 

A couple of days after the rumor arrived in town, the Hurstons followed, selling a large number of pistols and parts to Cleo, proving what he’d suspected already. If news about the Minutemen made the rounds these days, more likely than not people were talking about the Hurstons. 

Nora showed up in his office that same day, acting like no argument had ever happened. She looked unharmed, and when he asked her about the fight, she shook her head. 

“That was all Blake and Preston,” she said. “My job is talking you into letting us put up these around town.”

She pulled a rolled up poster from her satchel that showed the blue flag of the Minutemen and the outlines of some heroic figures with farming implements and rifles. It said, Join the Minutemen – This Land is Your Land. She saw him scowling at the art, and laughed softly. “I told Jun he should add some chem fiends, maybe a hooker, or you wouldn’t feel included.”

Normally he would have told any representative of the Minutemen to fuck off and take their propaganda with them so long as they couldn’t give enough of a damn to put a ghoul on it, but the fact that she’d already figured this out cooled his temper. 

Smart of them to send her. To be fair, they could have sent Blake, too, and if the guy had managed to get out the request, Hancock might just have listened. But she was good at this. 

He put the ashtray on one curling corner of the poster, his half-empty glass on the other, to keep it flat on the coffee table. “Get me that old lunch box in the cabinet by the window,” he muttered. 

He only got a small eye-roll for being too lazy to do it himself. She went over to the cabinet, opening the glass doors – and then paused for a moment, clearly fascinated by the heaps of junk inside. Hancock wasn’t really big on hoarding possessions. What he actually needed fit into a small satchel for the road, and the fact that he kept that satchel packed and ready near his desk was something best not examined. But that cabinet contained the stuff he didn’t strictly speaking need, but was too fond of to just leave lying around where anyone strolling in could help themselves to it. He didn’t own the State House and he didn’t think of anything in here as his, aside from the files on his terminal and the clothes on his back. It belonged to the town, and while he lived here, he belonged to the town as well. 

But the stuff in there was a little more private. Like the books, or the small collection of paints in the lunch box he wanted her to get. 

It was kind of her that she picked out the one thing that was silly rather than serious – that he could, in fact, have left lying around on the table with no one in town raising so much as a brow.

Nora clapped a hand over her mouth in exaggerated shock, turning around with a huge dildo dangling from a leather harness. “Did you know this was in here, Mr Mayor?”

“Sure. It’s mine, but you can borrow it any time, sweetheart.”

He’d been too focused on her rummaging through his things to pay attention to the rest of the house. And Blake Hurston, despite being built like a slender super mutant, moved up those creaky stairs like a cat in the night, and happened to be in the door at precisely this moment. 

His eyes darted from his wife, to the thing in her hand, to Hancock confidently claiming it as his own, and he blurted out, “You haven’t got a dick?”

Nora turned around quickly, not so much caught as incredulous, and said in a deadpan tone of voice, “Honey. Remember how we decided that I was going to do the negotiating? This is why.”

“Ya know,” Hancock said, draping one arm over the back of the couch and patting his crotch with the other hand, “I’d be upset, but my dick is fine and thanks for asking.”

Blake was turning red fast. “Jesus,” he murmured in a tightly pressed voice. “I should’ve stayed downstairs.”

“Why, exactly, would you even think that?” Nora prodded. “I thought you and he – “

“I never saw it!” Blake threw up his hands in exasperation. “And he’s – he’s a ghoul. They don’t have noses!”

“Really?” Hancock pretended to try and pinch his. “Hey! He’s right!”

Nora shook her head in deep disappointment. “It’s for a woman, Blake.” She looked down at the dildo, and traced its very generous length with a saucy smile clearly intended to torture her husband. “A woman who wants to really be on top for once.”

Ghoul lips weren’t really great for whistling, but damn. Hancock stifled a cackle. “You wanna borrow that, sister, anytime. Been boiled and all.”  
She cast a look at him, no longer saucy, and he thought understood the meaning just fine: this is the only way your dick gets anywhere near my husband. But her tone was light, a little prim, no threat whatsoever. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Which was… fine. He was going to entertain himself with that mental image for long time, and with the way Blake’s eyes widened, the mix of panic and helpless arousal as he watched his wife put the strap-on into her bag, the way he licked his lips like they’d gone hopelessly dry in a second, the way he clearly wanted to bolt but hung around awkwardly as Nora brought out the paints and watched Hancock deface the poster with a few bold stroke, giving one of the pitch-forked settlers and unmistakable ghoul smile. 

Add the right blend of mentats and daytripper, and this was more than enough. 

*

Not a peep from the Hurstons for almost two days, and then he ran into them in the street as they were about to head out again in full gear. Rather late for their standards, well past noon. There was a different spring in her step, a slight limp in Blake’s. Nora only gave Hancock a cheerful salute in passing, but Blake paused briefly as he trailed in her wake and nodded to Hancock – a silent thank you, only the tips of his ears a little red. 

Almost three weeks passed, and Hancock wondered if maybe they got what they needed from Goodneighbor, a little infusion of his town’s dirty blood to fix up their marriage. His disappointment surprised him, but he was the king of distractions and self-medication, and Goodneighbor was full of ways to quench that thirst. 

He almost wished they wouldn’t come back, but here they were, both of them, darkening his doorstep just as he was taking care of some business, a settler who had been a nuisance for a couple of days now, picking fights with people and shouting at the neighborhood watch. The man was sober now, but still angry enough to rant at Hancock for several minutes before coming out with what had actually brought him to Goodneighbor. His daughter had run off with a man who claimed to be a caravan doctor – “But he weren’t no doc, that one, I knew him for one of your filthy chem dealers immediately. Now where is she? Where are you hiding my Betsy?”

Hancock tried to be professional about it, because outside the open door he could see the Hurstons, Blake watching patiently, Nora with crossed arms and a distinctly mocking smirk, but the farmer wouldn’t listen to reason, and the conversation deteriorated quickly from slurs to threats. The safety came off when the farmer dropped the Brotherhood of Steel into the ring, making noise about going to them and coming back with a squad of their knights. 

“You think the Brotherhood gives a flying fuck about your daughter? You tell ‘em she ran off with a chem fiend and they’ll mark her down for a mercy killing. Now here’s some free advice, and it’s the only thing you’re getting from me: shut the fuck up about the Brotherhood, or someone in this town is gonna feel real patriotic, and you end up with a knife in your fat red neck, feel me?”

The farmer’s ruddy face paled visibly, and he failed to utter a coherent retort. At last, he stormed off, beard quivering in outrage. In the hall, Hancock heard him mutter something to Blake – a warning, he thought, not to take his wife to a place like this. 

“Charming,” Nora said as she entered. “Really, you didn’t have to get so diplomatic on our account, Mayor.”

He waved a hand, already tired of this whole affair. “Happens about once a month. If all those bored farmer’s kids actually ended up in Goodneighbor, we’d be bigger ‘n Diamond City. Now, what’s your poison? Drinks? Something a little more… adventurous?”

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” Blake said mildly. “We’re looking for work, actually. Any odd jobs about town. Thought you might have something a little more challenging than harvesting mutfruit.”

His gaze followed his wife as he said this. Nora was wandering through the office, poking at the little chem set and the couple of books he owned, like a bored shopper examining a third-rate market stall.

Hancock remembered thinking that she had to be rich, the first time he met her. He’d been deceived by her vault dweller looks and that pre-war wedding band, but as far as he understood the world they were from, lawyers were well off even compared to the incredible luxuries of the pre-war world. She had to be used to a certain standard of living. He also recalled that Blake had been capsless the last time they talked. And Blake was in deep with the Minutemen – they were notoriously short of funds, because they relied on donations from people who had nothing to spare. Was that what this was about? 

He employed mercs from time to time, when he needed a certain skillset or someone less embroiled in local politics than a member of the watch. Since MacCready had shown up in town looking for a place to lie low, the ex-gunner had become Hancock’s go to for taking care of jobs that required someone who didn’t care how he made caps so long as he made them. But the Hurstons were likely to be a little more picky about the jobs they took. 

An offer to just lend them some money was on the tip of his tongue – they’d be good for it, he was sure. And it’d bring them back around. But he watched Nora wander around the room, still acting like she wasn’t part of this conversation, and he picked up the tension in Blake’s shoulders and he thought better of it. 

They didn’t want to borrow money. Not from him. 

So he had to come up with something on the spot. “A job, huh? I heard there’s a missing persons case, and Nick Valentine is all the way over in Diamond City. Let’s say a hundred caps if you figure out what happened to the girl, another hundred if it gets her father to shut up and go home. That sound good?”

“I was going to offer him help from the Minutemen anyway,” Blake admitted. 

Nora turned on her heel, swatting him on the arm. It wasn’t hard to guess why: if he did it as a Minuteman, there’d be zero caps in it. But her expression wasn’t one of greed as she fixed Hancock in her gaze. It was curious, challenging, like money wasn’t even on her mind. “What happens if the investigation implicates one of _your_ people in a crime?” 

“Give me proof, I’ll deal with ‘em myself,” Hancock shrugged. 

She said nothing for a moment, staring at him as if she expected him to crack under her gaze, and then nodded. “We’ll do it.”

Behind her back, her husband smiled, visibly relieved. 

They were back three days later with the father, still weeping, twisting his daughter’s charm bracelet in his big, rough hands, and Blake dragging in the badly beaten culprit. It was Three-Finger Trevor, one of Marowski’s men, and executing him was going to cost Hancock more than two-hundred caps, but Trevor confessed and took a bullet before sundown, and Hancock paid the Hurstons the promised reward. 

They kept coming back for these little odd jobs, and even when he didn’t really have anything important that needed to be done, he figured something out. MacCready complained about it, until Hancock pointed out that there was a whole market the Hurstons weren’t going to take over on account of how they weren’t nearly as much fun as Bobby. That took care of MacCready’s insatiable need for caps and the constant mild frustration Hancock had been experiencing ever since meeting the Hurstons, at least for a while, at least some of it. 

Only some, because Hancock was shit at denying himself. The universe had denied him plenty; he’d grown up near the gutters, and stuck close to them for most of his adult life. But he’d never done it to himself. 

And the Hurstons might not have been teasing him intentionally, yet there were too many moments like this one: early afternoon, late August heat rolling through the alleys, the Third Rail empty and the only place with a faint semblance of cool air. Fahrenheit and Charlie were taking stock of their stores, and he was at the bar, self-medicating last night’s hangover and sampling his own goods. 

Nora came down the steps, for once without her long coat, a man’s dress shirt tucked into jeans that hugged her slim waist, her hair pulled back in a braid. Even she looked overheated today.

Fahrenheit glanced up from the crates of Bobrov’s moonshine, her gaze lingering on Nora a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. 

He threw back a glance at his lieutenant, clearly staking a claim even though he had none. Unimpressed, Fahrenheit returned to her work. 

“Casual Friday?” Nora asked, poking at the red coat thrown over the bar. It was one of those missing-context things, he guessed, those little pre-war comments of theirs that only a pre-war ghoul would have understood. 

This time, the meaning was clear enough though, because she was giving his shirt a pointed look – he’d unbuttoned it all the way, baring his skinny self to the world in the hope of catching a breeze. Hancock responded in the only possible way: by leaning back against the bar and preening to give her a real good view of the most handsome remains on the whole coast.

“Yeah. Gotta make do, when the only cool thing in town is me.”

She didn’t laugh, not even a twitch. He knew that something was wrong, then, and he guessed it wasn’t just the heat. It stopped him from posing quite so shamelessly, but when Nora pulled his glass across the counter, giving it a delicate sniff before taking a rather large sip, he still got a kick out of it. Most people wouldn’t have wanted to get even this close to a ghoul.

She grimaced, but probably only at the tart flavor of his drink. “What’s that abomination?”

“Tarberry syrup. Too hot to drink it straight, like me.”

He waggled his brows at her as he said this, running the tips of his fingers down the now hairless trail to his abdomen, and this time he did get a soft snort out of her. 

Fahrenheit put down the ledger, and wandered away with a half-assed salute, leaving them alone except for Charlie’s busy not-quite-presence. Nora watched her go, then took another sip of warm vodka tarberry. 

“So, she’s your bodyguard _and_ she does your taxes?”

“This is a free fucking town. Ain’t no taxes around here.”

Nora tipped back her head with sigh. “Jesus, Hancock. Please tell me you’re just ignorant about the purpose of taxes and not an actual libertarian.”

“Hey, hey, just jokin’. Fahrenheit’s pretty great, yeah. I’m lucky she don’t wanna be the face of this operation. Why you asking about her? Got a crush or something?”

She didn’t deign that with a reply, asking Charlie for a drink of her own instead, vodka, no juice. Once she had it, though, she didn’t do anything except turn it in her hand pensively. 

“You know when I first knew I was going to be a lawyer? Ninth grade. There was a girl in my class. Patty. I think she got in on a scholarship, her parents weren’t quite wealthy enough to afford the tuition. We weren’t friends or anything. I don’t think anyone really was friends with her. One night Patty got assaulted on the way home. A couple of boys from senior year. Everyone in school knew about the trial, or thought they knew. I remember my mother saying, what did she wear? Where did it happen? Did she drink? And I thought – what does it matter? What the hell does it matter? But in the end, that’s exactly what the judge said. They were acquitted. And Patty left the school.”

As foreign and out-of-context as her tale was, Hancock could feel the anger coiled tightly around each word, the old, pent-up rage and guilt. It was so familiar he could almost taste it on his own tongue, sour, bitter, churning. 

He didn’t fully understand what this had to do with Fahrenheit, though. Or with him. Damn, he hoped it had nothing to do with him.

“Hey. I ever cross a line, you tell me, right?”

She ignored him completely.

“I got my degree. Top of my class. Ignored all the comments about girls at CIT just looking for a husband. Ignored my mother, when she sent me articles about the dangers of late pregnancies. I was really, really good at what I did, Hancock. And then we got out of the vault, and none of it means anything around here – Blake. The first night after he came back from Concord. He took out this gun he took from a man he’d killed. A laser rifle. ‘No recoil’ he said. ‘It’ll be easier for you to learn how to shoot it’. I threw the gun at his feet and left. Just… walked. He followed me, even when I hit him. All the way to Lexington. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” She gave a brittle laugh, knocking back the vodka. “I still don’t know how to shoot.”

He remembered the first time she’d walked into town, all on her own. The way she’d brushed off Finn. It was even more impressive now that he knew how stupid a stunt it had been. 

But it was fucking stupid. 

“Look, sister… the first time I ran off to Goodneighbor I was fourteen and I knew shit all about shooting a gun. Didn’t even have boots that fit me. But I was a lil shithead looking for trouble. Are you?”

She didn’t rise to the bait. “How about you? Do _you_ know how to shoot a gun, or is that why you’ve got an amazon on retainer?”

Hancock cackled. “Oh, hell yeah, I know how to shoot a gun. Hit somethin’ with it, even, if I’m dosed up right. Self-taught and dirty, but the dead ain’t complaining.” He paused, realizing suddenly where this was going. “You want a lesson from her? Why didn’t ya say so straight away – I bet Fahr would be only too happy to give a gal like you some hands-on instruction.”

He pushed off the bar to go and get Fahrenheit to come back, but Nora shook her head. “I want this to stay between us, Hancock. And you owe me.”

For a second, he was too surprised to say anything. The last time he’d taught anyone anything was when he’d prepared his fellow drifters to take down Vic, and no one had really asked him to do that. No one had expected him to be able to pull it off, least of all John McDonough. And this wasn’t just trust in his ability to teach and keep his big mouth shut. She was trusting him with that huge, brittle ego of hers. 

“Ain’t that the most romantic idea for a date,” he finally said. 

*

He took her down to Back Bay the next day, down to the river, where you could take potshots at mirelurks in peace. Didn’t ask what her husband thought she was doing, because that was clearly a bad idea. He’d brought his shotgun and a fair selection from Fahr’s arsenal, some high quality goodies for all occasions. Nora was petite, sure, but other than her height, Fahr wasn’t a heavy-weight either, and neither was he. Mrs Hurston could learn how to deal with recoil, and in his opinion, half the point of carrying a big gun was being confident enough to shoot – not competent enough to hit. 

Nora was a terrible student. Impatient with herself, impatient with him, asking questions when she should be watching and listening. After half an hour, he sat down on the rusted hood of a car half-buried in the sandy muck and lit a hubflower joint just to stay mellow. 

“Think I finally know what Miss Edna went through trying to get me to learn my sums,” he huffed, expelling a stream of blue smoke. “Here’s to that sweet, patient bot.”

“Tell me I suck at this when you know how to conjugate it in Latin,” she snapped, struggling to reload the rifle before failing to hit the dead mirelurk again. The pockmarks on its thick shell were all from Hancock’s demonstrations. “Fello, fellas, fellat, fellamus – fuck this bastard – fellant.”

“Oh yeah. Go on. I love dirty talk. Any more of that, and you get a free demonstration of what I know about sucking.”

She threw a hot glare at him over her shoulder, and when she turned around again and pulled the trigger, her shot exploded the lurk’s mandibles into splattering goo. 

“Yes!” she screamed, throwing up the rifle’s barrel to shoot up at the blue sky, stumbling back at the different angle of recoil. “Ow, ow, damn, my collarbone – did you see that? Right in the face!”

He clapped, slowly, sucking on his joint. 

“See, kitten? I’m a regular fucking professor.”

She kept shooting until the ammo for the rifle went out and then came to sit at his side, her hair drenched in sweat and curling around her flushed cheeks. It brought out the few freckles she had, the blue of her eyes. 

Her smile as she leaned close was the first genuine one she had shared with him.

“We’re even, John,” she said. “Thank you for this.”

He felt it like the twist of a knife in his guts, the lightness of her voice, the warmth in her eyes, the realization that he was in too deep to get out of this unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you enjoyed this <3


	3. Chapter 3

The reds were running into a noxious yellow, a halo of poisonous glow around a figure that seemed to be raw flesh, no skin, freshly born out of the blaze. Hancock stood and stared, ignoring the yelling of the raiders on the stairs, the jackhammer noise of Blake’s assault rifle.

The colors were so vivid he could taste them. He’d never managed to paint like this, like something pulled straight out of the worst kind of high. The temptation to touch it, to lick that slick, still wet-looking color was pulling him closer like a magnet. 

Just as he leaned in, something impacted hard between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward against the canvas and out of the way of a wheezing lick of flame. He coiled around angrily just in time to see Blake shooting a raider coming at them with a flamer, the rain of bullets nailing the bastard against the wooden staircase for a second before he went still, torn and bleeding. 

Blake grabbed him, dragging him over to the hole in the wall that Nora had ducked into a moment ago. There was a hollow space behind the wainscoting, just wide enough for a person to walk, the ground littered with wood splinters and long-dead, dust-gathering husks of insects – some of them small enough to be pre-war. A little further along in the gloom of the passage there was can of paint, dried and cracked, a broken broomstick, a crushed cardboard box. The air in this cramped space was staler than in the rest of the gallery, but the stench of blood wasn’t as thick. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Blake barked. “We’ve got enemy contact, and you’re admiring the view? Are you fucking high?”

Hancock brushed him off. “Looks like I ain’t the only one having flashbacks,” he scoffed. “Relax. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“It’s going to be your last if you keep on zoning out like that.” Blake knocked the side of his fist against the outside wall, sending a trickle of dust to the ground. “Damn it. I can’t cover both of you.”

Seriously, did Hurston really think Hancock was going to be taken out by some no-name raiders who couldn’t even deal with a single psycho killer? Hancock was beginning to see why Nora was fed up with his overprotective bullshit. Though maybe he had been cutting it a little close. The art was… he hadn’t expected it to pull him in like that. He’d swear Pickman had looked inside his brain, pulling out visions of the night he’d turned ghoul. 

These weren’t your run of the mill kittens and sailboats. Shame about the murder part, because otherwise Hancock wouldn’t have minded jamming with the guy for a bit before taking him down. 

Right. So maybe he was getting a little off course. 

“Chill, brother. I got focus in a bottle, right here.” 

Hancock felt his pocket for the goodies he’d brought along, just in case. Maybe he should have done this outside, not with Blake breathing down his neck and Nora pressing closer, watching him wiggle out off his jacket to bare his arm. It was a matter of seconds, he could do this blind and high, leather tie around his biceps, fingertips searching the right spot among the grooves and welts of his skin, counting the heartbeats until he felt the swelling of his pulse, and in went the needle. He sagged back against the wall, tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth to quiet the hiss of pleasure as his eyes rolled back. 

“ – psycho?” 

Too loud, too close, too soon. Blake, still breathing down his neck. Hancock grit his teeth. 

“Christ, give a man a moment.” 

The world hadn’t yet finished tilting back to normal. The wall against his back felt as good as the floor, peeling off it was struggle against gravity. Shit. Even better than he remembered. Hancock swung forward, grabbing Blake’s collar. Lips. Hard to remember why he shouldn’t get a taste of them. Hancock grinned, a rush of wild power to his brain. “Want some? This the good shit, not your army-grade poison.”

Psycho made you feel invincible. Infallible. There was a small, very weak remnant of reason that was mildly surprised when Nora peeled the syringe from his grasp, her nimble hand digging into his pocket for another. He didn’t quite catch what she said, her quiet words hitting the big, dumb wall of fluffed up confidence inside him, but she was asking him to help her. Help her do wh- oh. His jaw dropped, a little, into a stupid grin. And then another ping of surprise when Blake ran her through the steps of taking a hit instead, clearly her first time, but clearly not his. Not that much of a surprise, the glorious halo of psycho inside his head screamed. Of course, who the fuck wouldn’t? 

He watched her gasp and curl up, her small white teeth sinking into Blake’s shoulder as he held her through the first rush, and grinned even harder. 

Psycho was pack mentality, psycho was sharing the taste of blood. Psycho was grinning like a madman at the first time Nora pulled the trigger as they breached the basement, both of them whooping at her kill. Psycho was tunnel vision in the actual gloom of the sewers, breathing in the stench and feeling it powerful deep in his lungs, like a hit of jet. Psycho was gutting a man with his knife while she beat a turret with the stock of her rifle long after it stopped firing.

In the end, Pickman was hiding, armed with only a knife. He expected them to talk, expected them to listen to him pontificating about art. Hancock was a little more clear-headed by then, almost willing to get a laugh out of the man’s nonsense before executing him, but watching Blake beat him down with the flat of his gun and then stomping his head under water as he shot him a dozen times was its own kind of amusing, if you weren’t sober enough to be horrified. 

Nora’s fingers dug into Hancock’s arm. He threw her a glance to check if she was fine, but she was licking her lips, a dazed, hungry look in her eyes. 

Still. Psycho could turn around and bite you in the face at any time. Hancock beat back the feral animal inside him and joined Blake. 

He clapped the man’s shoulder, feeling the rippling muscle through his drenched shirt. 

“Fantastic show, brother. Now let’s get outta here while the going is good.”

Blake hadn’t touched any chems yet, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the wildness of his gaze, the spittle on his lips. He wiped them with the back of his hand, then shuddered, some of the fog clearing. He shouldered his gun, his knuckles white around the strap.

“Let’s go.”

Blake took the lead and led them quietly and quickly through the tunnels. He seemed to have it together again, but when they reached the metal ladder back to the surface, he gave Nora a hands-up and as soon as he was out of her sight, he drew a sharp breath and turned to kick the brick wall. 

“Hey,” Hancock murmured. “Looking a little tense there.”

“This,” Blake breathed, voice blunt but trying to keep it low, trying to keep her from hearing them as she climbed up, “this is what I didn’t want her to see.” 

“Huh? Why would she – oh.” Yeah, that was the chems talking. Sober, that scene back there would have been ugly. Not something you’d want your loved ones to see. 

“She seemed okay with it,” Hancock said, but he knew that was no consolation. Some things you just wanted to bury where no one would find them. 

Blake didn’t even look up. He was breathing hard, his voice a deep growl. “Just… listening to the two of you. That… crazy chem talk. I don’t even have to take a hit. It takes me right back, me and the whole squad tearing through the reds – “

Up above, the hatch opened with a rusty squeak and Nora’s bright laugh echoed down the access shaft like a ray of sunshine. “Are you two necking down there? Come up here so I can see!”

Hancock put his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “You want some terrible advice from a professional chem fiend? When I’m havin’ a bad trip, I usually just knock my brain back on track with something stronger.”

The daytripper had been meant for his own gentle come-down after battle. It was no calmex, but at least it generally made people feel pretty good about themselves and the world. Getting Blake to turn around and accept the pair of pills was like trying to keep a spooked pack Brahmin on the road, but he managed, and Blake swallowed them down dry and then allowed Hancock to push him towards the ladder. He began climbing, slowing down halfway to the top, the last few rungs on the ladder almost taking him a minute. 

It was too fucking bright up there when they finally got out. Blake stared at the sun like a maniac until Nora pulled him over to the entrance to the gallery and they both collapsed on the stoop, Blake leaning heavily against the doorframe, Nora clinging to his arm and laughing at his blown pupils. 

“You’ve been doing it again,” she accused Hancock. The edge of psycho cruelty was still there in her giggle but it was softening. He loved it, loved the scrape to her voice from all the screaming they’d done. It went under his skin in all the right ways. 

From the looks of it, Blake felt the same way, lifting his head and staring at her before he suddenly took her face between his hands and brought their lips together. It wasn’t quite a kiss, too erratic and desperate for that, but Christ, they both looked good. Hancock wanted nothing more than to crawl into Blake’s lap and claim that kiss for himself and hear her sweet, messed up laughter… 

“Fuck, I’m horny,” he snarled. They looked up at him, blinking. “Psycho always gives me a hard-on. Let’s go back to Goodneighbor, where a man can jack off in peace.”

“Someone should make that the town motto,” Blake said quietly, almost as if it wasn’t meant to be a joke, but Nora snorted, boxing his side, and Hancock chuckled in surprise, and then suddenly all three of them were laughing like maniacs. 

He was still horny, but it was almost okay. At least the two of them were too out of it to realize what was going on with him. Once they got back home, he would take care of it, and then this afternoon would turn into a blurred smear of memory, only the bright bits remaining.  
*

They did get back to Goodneighbor, and that was where things went wrong. Hancock meant to peel off to the State House, but instead he ended up with them in the room the Hurstons had rented at the Rexford, and then, inexplicably, he was watching them wash in the old tub with tepid water, pulling off their filthy clothes like he wasn’t watching, and then he was doing the same, not even self-conscious, just glad to be cleaning off the sewer stench.

Nora, once she was done rubbing her wet hair with a rag towel, threw herself onto the bed, arms outstretched. She’d quickly put on a fresh pair of underpants and a tank-top, not even naked long enough to count as a tease. On the other side of the bed, Blake sat toweling off his neck with the slow movements of a man still distracted by chems. 

They were ready to crash. And he really ought to go. 

Nora groaned, throwing an arm across her eyes. “Ugh. I wish I could take a shower on the inside.”

“Psycho’s wearing off.” They could figure this out for themselves. Really, they could. Blake wasn’t new to chems, especially not psycho, so she didn’t need Hancock to hold her hand. And yet, here he was. Sitting down in the armchair, which was a safe distance from the bed but also a safe distance from the door. “Brain’s telling you to get another hit.”

A muffled snort against her arm. “No, thanks. I’ve dealt with enough addicts in court.”

You’re talking to one, baby, he didn’t say. Her refusal wasn’t meant to be an insult anyway. She was just being smart about this, and if she’d actually asked him for a second dose, he’d have told her no unless she was real persuasive about it. 

Nora tapped her fingers against the pillow restlessly. “Sleeping it off won’t work, will it? God, I want to just – dance to get it out of my system, or something.”

In response, Blake chuckled, and started humming a tune, and a moment later, she laughed again, that delicious, throaty sound and joined in with a small shimmy of her hips. It was something pre-war, something only they knew, and not being able to join them bummed Hancock out more than watching them jam together delighted him. 

This was his own fault. He should have bid his goodbyes to the Hurstons half an hour ago, should’ve hit up MacCready and got his cock sucked till that was all he thought about. 

Just as he resolved to do so, however, Nora lifted one pale arm and waved at him. 

“Hancock,” she sing-songed. “Han-cock. What are you doing all the way over there?”

Oh, damn. She knew what was up. 

Due to a complete lack of better judgment, he found himself rising from his chair, slowly, the old bones a little unsteady from all the excitement, nerves still singing with the last aftertaste of psycho. And then he was wandering over to the bed, leaning on the metal frame at the foot end to look at the Hurstons: Nora still on her back and smirking up at him, and Blake sitting on his side of the bed, his breath going a little shallow as his gaze darted from Hancock to his wife. 

“Anything else you need, princess?” Hancock asked her, cool as fuck. 

She pouted, maybe at the nickname, and then kicked one bare foot in his direction. 

“Yes. I’ve got a complaint.”

“A complaint?”

“About your dick.”

Now this was funny. Hancock flashed her lecherous grin. “You haven’t even seen my dick. Is that the complaint?”

Blake rubbed his face, hiding behind his hands. “She means your… thing. The toy.”

Ah. The toy. Oh no, buddy, you’re wrong about that. She may pretend to be talking about the strap-on, but your girl has a plan. “Not working properly for ya? Shame.”

“Oh, it’s working fine,” she said, jabbing her hands into the air in a crudely suggestive motion. “As well as these things can work. Blake loves it.”

That draw a sigh and a muttered, “Honey,” from Blake. 

Hancock sucked in his lower lip. “Mmm, love to hear it, sister. But there’s still something to complain about?”

“It’s good,” she said. “Quality work, great shape. I love wearing it, but – “

He kept his eyes on Blake as she went on talking, and enjoyed watching the man sink deeper and deeper into mortification – and arousal, oh yeah, this was turning him on, he was the type to get off on people talking, wasn’t he?

“But I just want to, you know, just once, I’d like to actually come like a guy,” Nora rambled. “Is that too much to ask? I want to come inside him and see the mess I make all over him. Or watch him swallow while the rest drips down his chin, ha, can you imagine that?”

Oh boy. Hancock pressed down a snicker. Sunshine was just all out of inhibitions tonight, wasn’t she? “Hard not to imagine it, when you’re getting descriptive like that.”

She snorted. “Cocks are wasted on men.”

A small, choked sound of protest from Blake drew their attention back to him, and his brown eyes widened in instant regret. 

Nora cooed and rolled over onto her side, pulling him down into a kiss. Hancock watched the tension in Blake’s shoulders falter as he slowly melted into it, forgetting that they weren’t alone. 

“Aw, honey,” Nora murmured, stroking the back of his neck, the soft, short hairs there. “I like what you do with yours. I’m just really, really high still. Ha! Can you believe I just said that out loud? I’m talking like some freshman try-out.”

She snorted, some old memory resurfacing, then peeked at Hancock over Blake’s shoulder, a provocative glint in her eye – well, what are you waiting for? 

Blast it, if he was going down, he was going down in a blaze.

“Ya know,” he said, slinking over to her side of the bed and sitting down, his hand inches from her bare thigh, “It ain’t the same thing, but there’s something we could do about that little fantasy of yours, sister.”

“Oh, is there.” Her eyes brimmed with giddy excitement, her voice was tight with it, her toes curled like she could barely keep still. 

Meanwhile, Blake’s brow knit as he turned from his wife to Hancock and back, the realization that they weren’t teasing anymore dawning slowly on him. 

"Do I get a say in this?" he asked. 

"Let's hear him out first, honey,” Nora said, sweetly and positively evil. Blake tried to extricate himself from her embrace, but she held on to him, keeping him on his knees above her. “Shh, you liked his ideas so far, didn't you?"

“Someone could lend you a helping... hand,” Hancock said, leaving no doubt as to which member he was actually talking about. “Strictly as a service. Get your man nice and ready for you. Sloppy seconds ain't the same as shooting a load yourself, but..." 

He trailed off, because he could see their imaginations already doing the work for him. Nora’s pupils had widened, her gaze unfocused and her breath quickened. She turned her head on the pillow, facing Blake. In a husky murmur she asked, "Honey, remember the big one you said you owed me?"

Blake’s reply had a noticeable strangled hitch to it. He tried to pull back again. "You... you said you didn't want to go biblical."

She ran her hand down the side of his face, scratching his stubble, her gaze still locked with his. "What if I changed my mind? Would that be terrible?"

After a long moment, almost trembling under her touch, Blake exhaled sharply and let his forehead drop to her collarbone, shaking his head. “No,” he breathed. “If you’ve changed your mind...”

She laughed in delight, kissed the crown of his head and slithered out from under him like an eel, bouncing lightly across the room to pick up her pack. First, she pulled out a small jar, one of those hard plastic prewar things that never rotted if you kept them out of the sun, which she tossed to Blake – who caught it, despite clearly being close to a heart-attack and barely able to meet her eyes. Then she pulled the strap-on out by the harness, waving the toy suggestively. 

Daisy would sell you all sorts of things if you had the caps for frivolous toys or wanted to make that kind of investment in your business. She’d shown him her selection once – dildos made from bone and ceramics and polished wood and rubber and metal and even strips of Brahmin leather. Some looked crude, about as comfortable as shoving a broomstick up your ass, but this one was a real piece of art. Radstag horn, carved into a solid, slightly curved length with a bulbous tip, the base shaped to hug a woman’s sex and provide a little pressure in just the right place. 

It was bigger than Hancock remembered, or maybe that was just the contrast to Nora’s delicate hands and she came sauntering back to the bed, letting it dangle from the leather harness. 

She came close, so close their knees almost touched, and looked down at him the way people did when they worked up the nerve to kiss a ghoul. 

“Do it or don’t,” Hancock said. “No harm either way.”

She tipped the tricorn off his head, putting it on her own. He allowed it, just this once, because then she trailed her fingers over back of his head – without grimacing at the welts and scars. “Did you kiss him?” she asked.

He shook his head. She didn’t smile, but he could tell she was pleased by that answer by the way her shoulders eased and her chin tilted up. 

“Do it now,” she said. 

Up until that moment, Hancock had been sure that he didn’t enjoy taking orders, not even during sex. He liked partners who weren’t afraid to take what they wanted, he loved to switch things around, but there were folks who got a real thrill out of being bossed around and he wasn’t one of them, except – except this. The evenness of her voice, the way her hand still rested on the nape of his neck, the way it sounded like a perfectly reasonable suggestion while at the same time there was still that impish curl to her lips. 

“Christ,” he exhaled, and turned to look at Blake.  
He wanted to do it, wanted it because she had said so, and also because, if he was honest with himself, he’d been wanting to kiss both of them since the moment he’d met them. Blake had a great mouth, full and wide, and right now he looked flustered and embarrassed and just perfect. 

Normally, Hancock would have asked. He wasn’t into that shiver of disgust when he kissed someone who wasn’t up to it, but as soon as he drew breath Blake nodded sharply leaned in. He closed his eyes, but it seemed to be instinct, a slow, gentle flutter accompanied by a moan released against Hancock’s tongue, and the way he opened up was as eager the way he’d let Hancock suck his dick, months ago. 

He savoured it, taking his time. With a last deep, gratified lick against Blake’s upper lip, Hancock let go of him. He’d barely even done so when Nora slipped onto his lap, turning his face to her and nipping at his lips with a delighted growl. 

Hancock stilled for a second, overwhelmed, then gave her the same loving attention. He gathered up her long, soft hair in his hands as he kissed her, but before he could twist and pull her closer against him, she pushed away and darted back to her feet, laughing. 

Her breasts bounced as she pulled off her top, soft white flesh and pink, perky nipples, and if she’d been just a little closer, Hancock would have pulled her in and sucked on them. But she seemed to be out of reach on purpose, laughing at the rapt attention she got from both of them. She stripped out off her panties quickly, not teasing, and kicked them off without care before turning her attention to the broad leather straps of the harness. 

“Need help with that?” Hancock offered as she began to put it on. 

“No,” she said, and she really didn’t – nervous and giddy as she was, she made quick work of the buckles, pulling them taut with an almost violent eagerness, and Hancock felt Blake shift behind him on the bed, unable to stay still. 

Her look when she was done, the dildo jutting out from her crotch proudly, was that of a prince surveying his domain. She took a regal step forward, kneeling on the bed next to Hancock, and gestured at her husband. “Get down here, darling.”

At first Blake moved stiffly, tension locking his joints, but as soon as he was close, she touched the back of his head and he seemed to melt a little, letting her guide him to the dildo. He gave it a lick, almost shyly, like this was the first they’d done this. Seemed unlikely, given how enthusiastically she’d talked about her fantasies earlier, but then again, maybe having an audience made Nora bolder than she usually was. Not that this was a show for him, Hancock thought as he watched her watching her husband, oh no, this was all about Blake, about making him do this in front of an audience. And there, right on cue, as he tried to wet it with his tongue, Blake cast a quick sideways glance at Hancock, his cheeks flushed scarlet. 

Then he closed his eyes, his lips stretching obscenely around the dildo as he took it into his mouth, nostrils flaring until he could no longer breathe around its girth. 

Nora purred, “Good.” She cocked her hips forward, making him open even wider. “You’re doing real good, honey.” A few more thrusts, and she ruffled Blake’s hair and cast a flushed look at Hancock. “Now let’s see what you’ve got, Mr Mayor.”

He shuffled back a little to the foot of the bed, leaning against the bedframe, one foot on the mattress, the other leg splayed wide. He hadn’t stripped all the way when they’d washed up earlier, keeping on his pants, and now as he popped the buttons they found out why: he didn’t usually bother with underwear, especially not in summer. 

Blake pulled off the dildo with a smack as Hancock pulled his dick out, he and his wife both curious for a moment - their first naked ghoul, and only the fact that this was probably also their first time in bed with another man stopped Hancock from worrying.

“Good thing I ain’t self-conscious,” he grinned. Even he wasn’t quite certain whether that was a lie or not at this point. “Like what you see?”

The corners of Nora’s eyes crinkled in amusement as she stole a glance down at the dildo, comparing. Hancock was hard, as hard as he was going to get, and he’d seen enough dicks in his life to know that for a guy his size he was pretty well hung, but the dildo was made to be impressive. 

“So you let your girlfriends have the bigger one, huh?” she commented. “I guess you really aren’t self-conscious.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t seen what I do with it yet.”

She seemed to like the challenge. Her fingers curled in Blake’s hair, tugging at it. “Go on, honey. I know what you want.”

For a moment, Blake did not move, his fingers curling into the mattress as if he had to physically fight some invisible force. But then his joints unlocked and he turned slowly down the bed. He still looked as though at any moment he was going to combust, the muscles of his shoulders and back all taut. All Hancock could see of his face was the frown knitting his brow. 

He was willing to give it time, let the guy figure out whatever struggle went on in his head, but Nora dragged her finger down Blake’s spine impatiently, making him shiver with nails just long enough to leave small red welts.

“Honey,” he protested, his voice a raw, choked whisper. “Give me a moment. I’ve never - “

“You tripped and fell on his dick fast enough the first time,” Nora shot back.

Although there was more humor than hardness in her tone, Hancock felt he ought to correct her. “Nah, I did all the tripping and falling.”

She looked amused and surprised, like she hadn’t figured him to be the type, and then her gaze grew a little unfocused, perhaps adjusting her mental image of what had happened between him and Blake and dwelling on it in a little more detail. 

This gave Blake the time he needed to work up his courage. Just as Hancock was about to give him some directions, Blake glanced up quickly, then sucked in a sharp breath and bent forward, licking the underside of Hancock’s dick just as he’d done with the strap-on, before wrapping his plush, already wet lips around the head. 

It was too damn good, this warm, wet, tentative mouth on his cock. Bucking up his hips like that with a first time player was rude, but Hancock couldn’t help it – Nora acting like she owned her man was infectious. Blake gagged, pulling back a second before loosening his jaw and making a second attempt, working hard to satisfy them. 

Edging around behind him on the bed, one hand on the metal bed frame at the head, Nora watched with sharp delight, her lips parted, trailing her other hand up her thigh and dipping her fingers past the straps of the harness, slowly rubbing her clit. 

Two of her fingers were slick and wet when she stopped and reached for Blake to squeeze his ass through his briefs. He started at her touch, his head coming up, lips covered in spit and eyes wide, and she gave his ass a small slap. “No, don’t stop.”

She waited until he went back to sucking before she tugged down his briefs, and Blake’s labored breath around his dick was almost enough to push Hancock over the edge. 

Blake’s hair was short, too short to really get a good hold, but he managed to pull him up, giving them both a break while Nora unscrewed their jar of grease and slicked up her fingers. Hancock watched, idly cradling his dick and rubbing the head over Blake’s cheek, enjoying the faint prickle of stubble, while she circled her husband’s hole with two fingers before pushing in deep.

His mouth falling open in a noiseless gasp, Blake screwed his eyes shut at the sensation of being breached. After a moment, he dropped his head against Hancock’s inner thigh, one arm curling around his leg to hold on tightly as she fingered him open. His breath was hot and wet against Hancock’s skin, the little choked moans every time she pushed in deep with four fingers even better than his tongue. 

Nora’s eyes sought Hancock’s. “How long are you going to last?” she asked. She looked like she was just on the edge herself, nipples hard, her neck flushing, fine hairs clinging to it with sweat. 

“Oh, don’tcha worry about me, fun part of being a ghoul is I can go for miles.”

That was a gross exaggeration, he was ready to come right now if she so much as said the word, and he had to bite his tongue when she said, “Then have another go at his mouth.”

Blake was barely responsive, but when Hancock tipped up his chin, he went willingly, allowing Hancock to slip from his grasp and get up. He stood by the edge of the bed, Blake at an angle between them. The position would have given Hancock the freedom of movement to fuck that willing mouth as hard and fast as he wanted, but instead he went slow and deep, sliding in all the way until he felt the clenching of Blake’s throat around the head.

“Wow,” Nora said, her brows climbing. She was teasing one of her nipples, cupping her breast, and had her other hand curled around the unflagging length of the dildo. 

“Yeah,” Hancock agreed, gripping Blake’s chin a little tighter to thrust in deep, past the resistance, so she could hear him gag. “He’s really going for it.”

A shudder went through Nora, and she arched her back as she reached down between her legs again, almost thrusting into her own touch. She moved fast now, artless, pinching her nipple hard, and came with a low, punched out sigh.

“Enough,” she groaned, gripping the bedframe tightly to stay upright. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Do it. I want – get him ready.”

Hancock stared at her, giving it two, three more thrusts because the feeling was just too good to stop, then he pulled out, resisting the temptation to slap his wet dick against Blake’s cheek. 

“Hey.” Hancock stroked his thumb along Blake’s cheek, waiting for his attention. The other man seemed to not even hear the question. He was out of it, lost in the breathless trance of having his throat fucked, but then he blinked, some sense returning to his gaze. His used mouth twitched into a lopsided smile that gave Hancock the reassurance he was looking for. 

He and Nora weren’t the only ones enjoying the hell out of this. 

“You ready for the main event?”

Blake nodded, shuffling a little closer to the middle of the bed. 

Hancock went to kneel next to Nora, so she could look over his shoulder as he ran his hands over Blake’s ass. The man’s briefs were still tangled around his thighs, so Hancock helped him to get them off, enjoying the sight of his balls, dusted with hair, and his cock, dangling heavy and full between his legs as he moved. 

He pumped his own at the same time, dragging the head down between Blake’s cheeks and against the slick, puckered entrance. Blake was tightening up, his hole grasping and resisting in turns, and he made a raw sound of at the first breach, muffling a shout against his fist. 

Hancock reached for Blake’s cock to ease things a little, but Nora’s hand snaked in beside his, pushing him gently away to take over. As soon as Blake felt the hand wrap around his dick and realized it was her, stroking him as Hancock kept pushing further in, it did something amazing to him. His back went from rigid to a relaxed, wanton curve, and Hancock slid balls deep on the next thrust.

Hancock patted his flank in encouragement, and slowly began picking up speed. “Yeah, that’s it, you know how to take it, don’t you? Sunshine taught ya well. Hah - we’re almost there, feel it? I’m gonna cream your sweet ass, right there, like that – “

He held back as long as he could, but it wasn’t long until he felt his balls squeeze tight, until he felt the slick, messy feeling of come enveloping his dick. 

It was a shame he couldn’t take his time, basking in the sensation, but he had a mission here. With shuddering grunt of pleasure, Hancock pulled out, wiping the coating of cum off his dick. Blake’s asshole was clutching at the empty air and it twitched when gave him a little swat, spreading the mess on his fingers around. 

“You’re a fuckin’ sight,” Hancock purred, squeezing Blake’s ass. “Hold it in, like that, yeah,,,” 

He nudged Nora’s side, casting a grinning look at her over his shoulder. “All yours, sweetheart.”

She leaned in, one hand on Hancock’s shoulder, taking in the sight with a hungry, amazed expression, and Hancock moved out of the way so she could take his place. He didn’t go far, though. He wanted to see it, too, this glorious thing they’d been working towards. She leaned against his side as they both watched Blake’s hole flutter as he did his best to clamp down, milky fluid dribbling down onto his balls, and then finally Blake lifted his head from his arms and turned to see why they weren’t doing anything to him anymore. He found them both staring at him, and Hancock had never seen a guy look like he wanted to die while he also looked out of his mind with lust, but this was it. 

“I can’t,” Blake groaned, fisting the sheets and hiding his face again, “babe, I can’t hold it it forever, please - “

His begging turned into a wordless moan as she pushed between his legs, holding the dildo at its base and rubbing the flared tip against his raw hole. “Blake,” she breathed. “Fuck. I love you. You look so good like this, honey -”

It was quite a stretch as she pressed into him. Hancock had his hand on the small of her back, just above the leather bands of the harness, and he could feel her strain as she pushed forward. Nora pulled back, wildly triumphant at the sight of her cock slick with come, and then gripped Blake’s hips and pulled him back onto it, making him take the full length and girth. Blake was gritting his teeth now, shouting against the bunched up sheets as she tried to go faster, harder, as hard as she could. 

Hancock caught Nora’s hand in his, getting her down there just in time to milk Blake through his orgasm. The other man whimpered in gratitude, his body clenching around the unforgiving hardness of the dildo, spending himself in their hands.

When the last twitching subsided, she wiped the sticky mess on the small of his back, rubbing it into his skin as she continued fucking him in quick, hard jabs, while Blake went boneless, his knees sliding out from under him and the air leaving his lungs in ragged gasps in time with her movements. 

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible, “I love you so much.”

She dropped down on top of him with a spent gasp, kissing his neck and wrapping her arms around him. Hancock let them have their moment - honestly, he was about ready to go. He’d gotten far more out of staying than he’d ever expected, but the show was over now, he’d done his bit. 

After a few moments, Blake made a noise somewhere deep in his throat, halfway between an animal whine and a question. Nora lifted her head, tousled, and looked confused for a moment before she realized Blake still had the strap-on inside of him, still as hard as ever. 

“Hancock. A hand?” she said, just as Hancock was about to get off the bed. 

Together, they got the straps undone before she flopped down along Blake’s left side and slowly pulled the dildo out. She dropped it onto the carpet, and kissed Blake’s hair in apology. “You did so good, honey.”

His response was a garbled but happy mumble against the pillow. She stroked his back, and rested her head on his shoulders with a contented look until Hancock bent to pick up his pants. 

“What the hell are you doing?” she whined in complaint. 

He paused, bemused. He’d have thought they’d be grateful for his tactful retreat, and they damn well better be, too, because tactful retreats weren’t usually his style. 

“You got what you wanted, princess.”

She kicked out with one of her small feet, missing him completely and jostling Blake instead. He grunted in soft protest. “Stop calling me that. And get the blanket and yourself over here.”

This time, her order wasn’t as confident as before. It wasn’t confident at all – there was a brittleness to it, barely hidden nerves. It felt exactly like the flutter inside his own chest as he dropped his pants and picked up the blanket instead, trying to figure out where to put himself.

They had each other, and they fit perfectly, her short, slim body curled along his tanned back, her face nestled against the bristly hairs at the back of his head. But she glanced up, found him standing there hesitating, and took his wrist, pulling him down against the softness of her back, his arm across both of them. 

Hancock thought about all the things in his pockets that would calm his skittering heart, but he didn’t move again. All there was to breathe in was the smell of her hair, a new, strange scent under the more familiar layer of sex. His dick was nestled right against her butt, and it wasn't even giving him impure thoughts.

*

He intended to get up before them. Didn’t expect to fall asleep at all, not mostly sober and with strangers in his bed. No one liked to see a ghoul first thing in the morning, but he wasn’t used to getting up at the crack of dawn, and when he woke, there was daylight filtering through the boarded windows. The sag in the mattress wasn’t quite deep enough and the one body tucked against his side was shorter than his own. 

It took Hancock some time to work through the fug that invariably clouded his brain whenever he happened to rouse from sleep. There were times when he preferred muddling through on mentats and brief naps to the way his body felt after a deep sleep - like all his limbs had been stitched together wrong, and his mind had gone on walkabout. Mornings were when he felt closest to turning feral, the only difference being a lack of motivation to get up and eat people. 

This was different. The light hit the wall above their heads with a dazzling brightness, and his vision was clear enough to make out the dust motes drifting slowly over the bed. No hangover. Regret, maybe, but the lightness in his limbs said something else. 

Hancock turned to face her tousled head of blonde hair. Nora had her face burrowed deep between a pillow and his shoulder, hidden from view, but he still remembered what she’d looked like last night, flushed and vibrant and happy. 

Yeah. No regrets there, never, that was a night to take to the grave. 

He reached under the warm blanket, trailing his fingers along Nora’s ribs, enjoying the softness that padded her frame, so unlike a wastelander or a ghoul. He poked gently, trying not to startle her. 

A groan, and a flailing attempt to poke back. “Rude. Lemme sleep.”

She’d shifted enough for him to sit up, but as soon as he did so, she snuck an arm around his waist, holding him back. “Ugh. Can’t I find one man who likes a morning cuddle?”

So she knew it was him. Hard not to, he guessed, with her palm pressed to the patchy skin twisted over his hipbone. 

“Where’s Blake?”

He imagined the guy stumbling about in the streets, gripped by panic or regret or whatever had driven him from their bed so early. Dawn was probably the safest part of the day to do that in a Goodneighbor back alley and not find yourself mugged or worse, but Blake had a unique talent for walking straight into trouble.

Nora yawned. “Morning jog,” she mumbled. “His only religion. Why, you wanna join him?”

Morning jog. Huh. Why the fuck would anyone get up and go running about for no reason? This was a pre-war thing, probably. When the Hurstons didn’t make sense but acted like everything was perfectly normal, it usually was. 

“So. Should I make my exit before he gets back?”

A deep, put-upon sigh emerged from the pile of woman and blanket. “I like you better when you’re being an ass, John.”

He almost laughed. Here she was, clutching his soft underbelly and calling him John and complaining that he didn’t have his game face on. It was fucking unfair, and it upset him in a way that made him feel small and squishy and three seconds from saying something vicious, until he realized the cause of her complaint. 

It bothered her, too. This being naked around each other, alone with each other, both with their guards down and vulnerable and not quite awake enough to deal with it. 

With huff, he turned around. “Yeah, I ain’t ready for that shit either, princess.”

Hancock could have just joined her under the blanket, but they were both a little too awake and tense for a cuddle now. But she didn’t want to let him go either. So he dove deeper, parting her thighs. She gave a small, annoyed squeal, pushing her heel against his shoulder, and he grabbed the underside of her knee, forcing his way down to lick at her pussy. Another squeal, and she bucked her hips, scrabbling at the back of his head to no avail. Laughing against her soft pubes, the smell of last night’s sex thick around him, he said, “Sorry, no hair to pull. Guess, you’ll just have to ride it out.”

Her nails dug into the back of his neck enough to hurt, but instead of trying to push him off, she slung one leg around him and pulled him in harder. 

He’d brought her off twice by the time the door swung open and Blake stomped in short of breath and beaming, to find his wife a sweaty, whimpering puddle, groaning in relief as Hancock lifted his head. “Save me,” she gasped roughly, and let her head fall back onto the pillow. 

Blake paused for a second, then turned to close the door quietly and came over to the bed. He chuckled softly as he bent down and pressed a kiss to Nora’s forehead. “What’s that, honey?”

“A break!” she gasped as he bent lower, kissing the soft valley between her breasts. She pushed him off. “No. I’m done! Do him, he’s asking for it.”

Blake sat up, an odd, slightly embarrassed look on his face as he glanced down at Hancock, who was resting his cheek against Nora’s thigh, watching with great interest. 

“Honey,” Blake said, a little choked up. “You can’t - I don’t know if that’s what he - “

“Oh, I think that’s a fucking grand idea,” Hancock grinned. “Yeah, do me.”

Hancock stayed where he was, head between her legs, as Blake tried to be gentle with him, his hands a little nervous on his hips while his cock only seemed to grow harder and bigger with each hesitant thrust. He fucked like he couldn’t believe anyone liked to be fucked the way they had both done him last night, and Hancock didn’t tell him to go faster - he wanted to ride this out, shamelessly allowing them to watch him come apart between them. This was better than the first hit in the morning, better than never waking up from a lucid chem dream. 

He didn’t realize that there had been talking, confused, heat of the moment talking, until Nora came back from the bathroom brushing her teeth and Blake went to gather his clothes and dropped Hancock’s coat onto his naked, motionless form. Time had passed, but he was fuzzy on how much of it exactly. 

“Well?” Blake said, cheerful again. “You meant it, didn’t you?”

“Meant what?” Hancock rolled onto his back, squinting at them. What? What had he said? 

“You said you wanted to step down in favour of a democratically elected mayor and donate all your drug money to a public library,” Nora said sweetly, and for about five confused seconds that sounded like something he *would* say after being fucked stupid, but Blake then threw her a chastising look. She was screwing with him. 

“You asked us to take you with us,” Nora said. “That’s what we’re doing.”

*

A weekend turned into a week, a week into a month, and here he was, watching Blake Hurston patch leaky roofs in the rain while a bunch of nervous settlers were trying not to make eye-contact with the scariest ghoul in the Commonwealth. They’d chased out the raiders from Hangman Alley two days ago, and the blood had barely run off into the gutters when Preston Garvey had shown up with these new folks, talking about back alley gardens and trading posts on the way to Diamond City. 

Nora had gone off with Garvey to Diamond City to negotiate some sort of agreement. When Hancock told Blake to go with them, the guy had shrugged. “Not much of a city slicker, me,” he said. It took Hancock a couple of moments to hear the gentle irony, and realize that for them, the great green jewel would always be a podunk village. 

“Why did ya really stick around?” he asked now, five hours later. 

Blake pulled the last nail from where he’d been holding it between his lips and started hammering. He was crouched on the roof of the rickety construction the raiders had built where the alley was narrowest, three floors up and unconcerned by the slick wood or the rain drenching his shirt. 

“Yesterday,” Blake said, cryptically, wiping his face. He finished the work, then dropped down into the dry part of the shack. Hancock threw a rag at him, and watched him strip out of his wet shirt and pants before rubbing himself dry. 

“Good word. Three syllables. You gonna elaborate on that?”

Blake gazed out into the darkening gloom of the rainy evening. “Yesterday, you said taking this holiday was a great idea.”

Had he? Probably when they were all naked, and he wasn’t watching his mouth. Well, it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. This little walkabout had been fun. 

Blake finally stopped brooding at the night, glancing down at Hancock in his cobbled together armchair. 

“Holiday,” he repeated with emphasis. “Like it’s a temporary thing. If we’d left you here on your own, you’d have slunk back to Goodneighbor.”

“Can’t fuck off forever. Even Goodneighbor doesn’t completely govern itself.”

And really, although he wasn’t going to say something like that to a guy as sweet as Blake, Hancock was waiting for that moment when he reached his satiation point with the Hurstons. He loved people, in general, and them in particular, but Hancock didn’t go on for steady. He had some regulars, folk who kept wandering in and out of his life with whom he rarely missed his chance to hook up, but that was as long-term as he went. It was the same with chems. He loved using, but he’d never been one to get hooked on just one thing. Always looking for that new kick, always pushing his own boundaries. 

Blake gave him a look of ‘you know that’s not what I mean’. He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. Hugging himself, really, like a big, muscle-packed boy of ten. 

“If you hadn’t. If I hadn’t met you, I don’t think… Things were a mess. Between Nora and me. Ever since the bombs dropped. She lost everything. All the things she worked for, everything she believed in. And I was… fine, I guess? This is. God. I feel terrible for saying it. So many people died. But for me, this is… better. I’m only really good for one thing. At least here I’ve got a choice between… I can choose who to kill for. But Nora – “ He paused, unable to express himself. 

Of course Hancock already knew. She’d told him, and it was plain to see when you knew what to look for. Her angry pride, the risks she took traveling alone. The way everything about her softened and brightened when she had someone to talk to about books, about politics, about the knowledge she still carried with her, and the shadow that fell over Blake every time he mentioned the world as it had been. That strange look in her eye a few days ago, when Garvey had started talking about the need for a Minuteman general – not to her, but to Blake, like he was the right guy to lead them.

Hancock wasn’t the thing that had blown up their marriage. The bombs had done that, two hundred years ago, by turning the world on its head. He’d merely jumped into the crater, merrily kicking up dust in the rubble. 

Blake shivered a little, rubbing his arms. He bent to pick up a blanket, draping it around himself. “Now she’s… fine when we’re together. The three of us. She, uh. Don’t ever tell her I said this. But I think she looks at you and she sees what someone like her could do, in this place.”

Hancock was silent for a long time, letting the patter of the rain drown the silence. If he held still, he could feel the world move without him, like that slow drop after a hit of jet, like the ancient body of a brainless feral in the gutter, dead to the world but never rotting. No thoughts in his head. 

He heard himself laughing, low and flat in the back of his throat. “What she could do? Brother, she could do a lot better than me.”

Blake looked at him, an almost boorish blankness to his expression, like the quip had fallen on deaf ears. Then he shook his head. “You don’t think she could have done better than me?”

That startled a real laugh out of Hancock, and as he continued to chuckle, holding his flat belly, Blake huffed. “No need to rub it in.” Then he shifted, drawing the blanket tighter around himself. “You’re gonna make me say it,” he accused. 

Hancock stopped laughing. “Wait. I missed the part where we were getting kinky.”

With a deeply frustrated noise, Blake came towards him and pulled him up out of the chair, easily overcoming Hancock’s token resistance. The ease with which he did that was always a turn on, but something about his expression stopped Hancock from draping himself against that big, solid body. 

“I know what Nora wants,” Blake growled. “I know what I want, finally. But I can’t fucking figure out what you want, Hancock.”

A list reeled through Hancock’s mind, a jumble of answers both serious and joking, profane and profound. It was easy to get lost in that stream of thoughts, that undertow of wants pulling him down and away. For a moment, it all seemed equally important – freedom for the Commonwealth and that perfect cocktail of party mentats and radwater he’d never been able to replicate, a way to prevent lint getting into his nose while he slept and the ability to turn back time, the location of his missing toe and the answer to Blake’s damn question. 

But it was there, right in front of him. The thing Blake was afraid to say was clearly written on his features. Don’t you dare hurt her, his expression said, not angry but begging. Don’t hurt us. 

Which was insane. There were folks who depended on him, mostly because they had no other options. Folks who liked being around him, because, yeah, Hancock was a fun guy. Folks who had been disappointed by him, in the past. But no one had ever hurt to see him go. 

“Fuck if I got a clue what I want,” he breathed. “But that ain’t ever stopped me from tryin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this story, I think :) Hope you enjoyed the resolution!


End file.
